Call it curiosity. Call it her investigative nature. She was a police-woman, after all. But Lestrade's failure to procure any evidense of the freak using again did not satisfy Sally in the least. If it wasn't drugs (and she still had an idea that it was), then it was something else. And that something else couldn't be good. It was her duty as an officer to solve this mystery. Or so she told herself. This is why, two days after Lestrade's visit, Sally was standing wide-eyed at a surprised and not-very-happy Sherlock draped over the couch in the middle of the living room in 221B Baker Street. So she may have broken a couple of laws to get into his flat. Her excuse that John and her could be considered friendly enough for her to just drop by because he had invited her and Lestrade in for tea before suddenly seemed insufficient with the stony glare the consulting detective was presently sending her way. How could she have not considered the fact that he might have been home at the time?

Sherlock, devoid of his usual armor, came as a shock to Sally. All sharp edges and angular bones poking through the thin fabric of a thin white t-shirt hanging off a lithe frame, she almost felt wrong for catching the detective in this state. There was no way he would ever willingly comply to being seen in flannel pants and a t-shirt, least of all by her. Without the usual scarf and coat, Sally was unsure of how to act around the man before her, feeling, for all the world, like a nervous child instead of the accomplished police officer she was. John should be here worrying about Sherlock, not her. Right? That was John's role, not her's. Lestrade's even. Certainly not her's. Sally began to turn and make for the door but stopped short at the quiet sound of shuffling.

"What are you doing in my flat?" A quiet voice, but clear and crisp still; the distinct pronunciation that only a private school education could engrain permanently enough to mask the groggy voice that most people customarily had upon awakening. Evidently, the shuffling had been the previously unconscious consulting detective Sally was attempting to flee from. Even more evident, said consulting detective was no longer unconscious.

"I- I-" 'Stupid, Sally, Stupid!' she chided herself. 'Brilliant. Now what?"

"The door was bolted. I will repeat myself, Sergeant Donovan, why are you in my flat?"

Without the familiar barrier of everything that came to represent Sherlock- without the coat, the scarf, the dapper shirts, the shiny shoes, without everything that came to symbolize the animosity between him and everyone else, the knee-jerk need to compete had been stripped away. Sally wondered if the conditioning that had occurred over time had been deliberate. Everything Sherlock did seemed to be deliberate. Sally entertained the idea of Sherlock training others to react like Pavlov's dog every time they came in contact with him. Only instead of ringing a bell the detective flew his freak flag and acted like a grade-A asshole. Maybe as an experiment. Maybe to keep his distance. Maybe because he was bored. Who knew when it came to Sherlock, Sally mused. What she did know, however, was that her feet seemed to be glued to the spot and her mouth seemed to have lost all ability to speak. Suddenly, she was Sally the 10-year-old, called upon in front of the entire class to produce the answer to a math equation she couldn't understand. Why was she in his flat? She opened and closed her mouth like a guppy, unable to produce an answer.

This was unfair, she decided. Without everything that smacked of Sherlock, without the great billowing coat and the scarf and the thousand pound suits he was accustomed to, he was no longer a caricature. How was she supposed to stay in character, to play her role, if he wasn't playing his? Witnessing Sherlock reduced to a state of possible demise had been one of Sally's greatest hopes for many years now. Only now, the reality of it was not so sweet. The man in front of her was not Sherlock. He couldn't be. While the accusation in his question was spot on, the usual intensity in that deep voice was not present. Either way, wearing only a thin white t-shirt and flannel pj's made the man in front of her seem almost human somehow: Normal even, dare she think it. It did not escape Sally how young Sherlock looked in pajamas- or how small. It also did not escape her that it was not merely the exchange of the great coat for more casual attire that made Sherlock appear small and vulnerable. The consulting detective had literally shrunk since the last time she had seen him, features sharp and skin stretched taut over bone. The gleam that seemed to always spark from those cold eyes replaced now by some dull luster, a dim glow lit only by a small amount of curiosity. A tinge of guilt wheedled its way into Sally's consciousness with the realization that maybe she didn't know the detective as well as she thought she did. Isn't that what the protagonist usually discovers in the movies? Was she even the protagonist, after all? The freak was stone. That was the arrangement. An eye for eye and no one got hurt because no one felt. If this was Sherlock then who she thought Sherlock was couldn't exist and that would make her the bad guy. Maybe she had got it all wrong. Or maybe his pitiful state had simply incited the better angel of her nature. A wave of uncertainty engulfed her. This was definitely a mistake, coming here.

"I just came to see John." The words flew out of her mouth before they could check in with her brain. Well, it was kind of true, wasn't it? She was here because of John.

"To see John?" In one swift movement, the consulting detective was sitting, a look of suspicion smeared across his face. "Why would you be here to see John?"

The sudden accusatory tone in that question gave Sally a much-needed return to normality. This was good. This was Sherlock. Her Sherlock. The brash, insensitive Sherlock who she knew. And this game she knew the rules to.

Pulling her shoulders back in defiance, Sally felt a spark of confidence. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, the world does not revolve solely around you. John lives here too. I have a right to stop by and see him and I don't have to ask you for permission." The latter part of her statement came out whinier than she would have liked, but it was a start. This was comfortable domain; shared territory, this back and forth antagonism. Sherlock eyed her suspiciously.

"Well he's not here.", all the while maintaining an all too familiar expression of skeptical disdain. Sally wondered if he practiced these looks in the mirror when he was alone.

"Clearly." Feeling more confident about her position on the matter, Sally decided that she had come here for answers and answers is what she would get. "I think I'll wait here for him, if that's all right."

"It's not."

"I think I'll wait anyway."

"You can't."

"I can and I will."

"Says who?"

"Says my badge."

Sally knew from past experience that the shiny star in her pocket was one of the few tools that allowed her to occasionally win these back and forth sparring matches. Sherlock let out a loud huff before half-throwing his body back down onto the couch like a petulant child. She zad won this round. She allowed herself a small smile before taking a seat in a plaid chair across from the sofa.

With Sherlock's back turned, in a gesture she could only guess was some adult form of the silent treatment, Sally sat quietly, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. For John, perhaps. Or maybe just to see what would happen next.

The late afternoon sun spread out across the silent flat, dust particles filling the air. The quiet was loud in its intensity, making the singular sound of a clock ticking on the mantle obtrusive, almost unbearable. Sally tapped her fingers on her knees for a moment, taking in the sights around her. She wasn't sure what she had expected, dead bodies spread across the floor? She imagined it would feel almost peaceful if she weren't feeling so restless. Glancing at the sofa, bringing her attention back to the childish man lying still in front of her, she watched as the thin back rose and fell, slowly, softly. Asleep, then. He would just go back to sleep, she thought, rolling her eyes.

It was strange, being this close to the consulting detective and not having those eyes darting around in every which direction. It was stranger still, seeing him so peaceful. Sally inched herself forward until she was perched on the edge of the chair, then lifted her head to get a better look. To observe. The analogy quirked her lips into a half smile before she could stop herself, but it disappeared just as quickly. A part of her feared Sherlock was merely pretending to be asleep, but it was unlikely that he would put that much effort into her. Sally moved forward once again, eyes resting on a gaunt cheekbone, taking in the pallor that made even Sherlock's regular skin tone seem sun-baked. There was something off about his color; a translucent, drained quality about it that Sally had never seen on him before. Still, he looked content now, eyes fluttering slightly back and forth beneath the lids. Dreaming, then, Sally, noted. It felt as though Sherlock was some rare animal and this was Sally's one chance to observe him up close; to really see him. Only she couldn't equate the body before her with the one she had come to know. Sherlock was not meant to be this frail or this weak. He was sturdy, even with his posh grace and apparent inability to adequately take care of himself. He was physically built to last. A statue, imposing almost, dignified. But this- this form in front of her was not Sherlock. How could it be? Sally's eyes ran down the length of one long, pale arm, over a palm of a thin, graceful hand; down long fingertips and over to the corresponding side. The metacarpal bones reminded Sally of the bones of a newly born bird she had once found in her backyard as a child. It had upset her back then, to see those tiny bones, fallen and dirty. It meant pain and sadness and death and the failed promise of protection. It meant being small and alone. It meant the same now, looking at Sherlock's hand. Sally wondered if this is how Sherlock felt when he "deduced" his latest victim, observing the minute details of flesh and bone so closely that they seemed more like a machine than a man. The thought floored sally, prompting her to abruptly retreat from the delicate hand she had been scanning. From a new distance, she continued her observation.

As if he had heard her thoughts or felt her gaze, the long, ropy arm stretched itself. Sitting quickly back into the chair, she watched with bated breath as each long body part slowly came to life; Stretching, like a cat, supine and indulgent. First the arm, then the abdomen, then two legs and another arm above the head before turning the entire torso in her direction in a full-body stretch. For the life of her, she could not stop thinking of how strange this all was. Sherlock Holmes should not be lazing on a couch, napping, stretching, wearing normal clothes in a normal flat. Sally knew she should not be seeing this part of him. This complicates things. This obligates her. She definitely, totally, seriously never should have come here.

Just as this had been decided, two silver orbs slid open, slow and snake-like, unsurprised and already aimed at her as if it was obvious she was going to be precisely where she was. Sally knew better than to assume anything was a coincidence with Sherlock.

"John hasn't shown up yet?" The deep voice was low and knowing, but surprisingly pleasant. Sally was obliged not to dignify it with an answer. It was obvious he was only asking to point out the fact that she should have known this upon arrival. Sherlock lay for a few moments watching Sally, who was watching Sherlock. Only it wasn't the kind of watching Sally had ever seen Sherlock do. His eyes were still; the eyes of someone who had just spent the better part of two hours lazing on the couch, slowly waking to the world around them. Sally glanced around the dimming flat, more comfortable now in the calm flat than she had been earlier. Perhaps the uncharacteristic calm emanating from the man across from her had rubbed off on her or maybe she was just tired, but she suddenly felt quite comfortable lounging quietly in the puffy chair with the last of the slow, setting sun leaking through the blinds. The whole thing was absurd; her very presence in that flat, the fact that Sherlock was less than ten feet away from her and not bombasting her with deductions. It must be a dream. An absurd, albeit not entirely unpleasant, dream. The whole situation was comfortable in its strangeness; a nice reprieve from the reality that was her and Sherlock's normal getting-ons. If you could call them getting-ons.

A few moments of lazy silence passed before Sally returned her gaze to the man lying on the sofa across from her, those eyes still trained on her, serene and unreadable.

"He's not coming." Sally stated plainly. She wasn't angry about it. Not anymore. It was just a fact. A deduction, really. She had known all along that John would not be coming home that night.

"No?" The usual venom in the word replaced now by something akin to curiosity at Sally's sudden response. Sally had expected Sherlock to berate her for apparently thinking John returning home that night was a possibility. She was sure there must be some clever clue in the flat that she should have picked up on hours ago. But the insults she had been readying herself for didn't come. Instead, the thinning man in front of her continued to lay, watching her, as if something was about to happen.

"You lied to me.", she stated mildly. Maybe it was the calm of the flat or the uncharacteristic calm in Sherlock's eyes that she didn't want to disturb, but she wasn't angry about the lie. She was stating a fact. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sherlock locked his eyes with hers for a brief moment, a glimpse of something familiar and tense flashing over them then disappearing just as quickly, before returning to their previously calm gaze.

"Yes."

"You said you were sick because John has been taking shifts at the hospital. You told Lestrade John has been gone for months. Why?"